


i guess any thrill will do

by runthemredlightsbabe



Series: pieces [4]
Category: haikyuu
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Language of Flowers, M/M, big-bro teru gives some much-needed advice, when will i stop torturing Akaashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9643088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runthemredlightsbabe/pseuds/runthemredlightsbabe
Summary: This is the way the story goes, because people gives pieces of themselves to their precious people. Intuitively, instinctively, without even thinking about it. Selflessly, accidentally, because Tadashi thinks Kei isn’t watching, but Kei has ink in the shape of Tadashi’s freckles, and Kageyama carries Hinata’s first name above his heart because that is where best friends belong, and Bokuto is telling Akaashi the story of his family because he doesn’t want Akaashi to be scared. He doesn’t want Keiji to hate what he’s created, and even if it isn’t conscious, it is done with purpose, and anyway, the flowers are lined up in a row and the coffee is warm  and the golden eyes are quiet. People give themselves to those they love. That’s how the story goes.Title credit to "Someone New" by Hozier





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, this is called "stop self-destructing damn u" in my docs.

It starts like this-

Bokuto sits on Akaashi’s tattoo table in his hideous pastel sweatshirt and bright sneakers, kicking his legs like he’s seven and waiting for fresh taiyaki. He smiles real wide when Akaashi walks in, a raw beam of sunlight, like his face is about to split open.

“Akaashi!” He says with all of his energy (Akaashi gets the feeling that is how Bokuto lives, how he breathes, how he loves - with everything, _everything_ he has, and the skeleton boy wonders how long it will take for him to burst) “Hey, hey!”

Akaashi feels hollow, cut open and drained, and he squints when Bokuto’s light hurts his eyes. This strange boy with the strange hair and the strange eyes, who has sent him so many flowers that they line the little windowsill in Keiji’s bedroom one after the other like little bright stars. Oikawa might call them martyrs, because he’s poetic like that. “Hello, Bokuto.”

“I brought you something!” Bokuto says, with a funny smile on his round face. He takes Akaashi’s hands with warm, scarred fingers, and presents them with a warm, smooth mug. “Coffee! I made it myself. Black! I, uh… wasn’t sure how you liked it, and when I asked your um, brother, he said “like his soul - dark and bitter” and I took his word for it, even though I don’t really know why because historically, he is a lying liar who lies.”

There’s a beat as Akaashi reflects on Bokuto’s remarkable impersonation of his brother, and also the unexpected gift. A deep sigh travels through his bones as he takes a experimental taste. It is dark and bitter and warm and rich and _good_. He looks at Bokuto with what he hopes are kind eyes. “Thank you.”

“Of course!” Bokuto fidgets. “Uh, I also, kind of wanted to apologize for what I said to you. You know, with Kageyama and stuff. It wasn’t my place and it was kind of insensitive, and I know it made you feel bad. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was trying to make it better! But I made it worse. I do that a lot. It’s like, my signature move. I never know when to keep my stupid mouth shut. I’m really sorry about it, Akaashi. I feel horrible! I am horrible! And then I told Kuroo, and he was like “you idiot, why did you say those things!?!” and I freaked out because we don’t even really know each other that well and I’m just so sorry for hurting you.”

  
Akaashi is taken-aback. He is always taken-aback by Bokuto, it seems, this strange boy with strange hair and strange eyes who is sincere and wears his heart like a pendent. He reassures himself with another sip of good coffee. “You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“Still!” Bokuto flaps his arms, distressed. “I didn’t have to be such an asshole! I just wanted you to realize that it wasn’t your fault because you seemed so sad and broken and lonely, and my initial reaction was to hug you, but then I figured you probably weren’t a hugger, and everything I said made it worse!!”

“Please don’t beat yourself up about this, Bokuto. It’s okay.” Akaashi lays a tentative hand on Bokuto’s wrist. It is warm, like everything else about him, and Akaashi feels like a leech. “You were being nothing but kind. I should thank you for your thoughtfulness. And the coffee.”

“Akaaaashi,” Bokuto complains. “Just take my damn apology, okay? I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven, Bokuto. I already said it was okay.”

“No!” Bokuto grabs Keiji’s retreating hand. “Hey, look. You can’t say it’s ‘okay’, alright? Because it’s not. I really messed up. I shouldn’t ever do that again. So you can’t just dismiss it. You have to stick up for yourself. At least, that’s what my therapist said. You have to take care of yourself, Akaashi! You can’t let people get away with everything.”

Akaashi feels his face heat, and he snaps, “So what am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know. Usually, I say ‘thank you’. Like, I thank someone for realizing that they’ve hurt me and apologizing, but I don’t say that they’re forgiven.”

“That seems a little harsh, Bokuto.” He tries to pull away.

“Please,” Bokuto searches Akaashi’s face with anguished eyes, and it’s such a wrong look on his face. Pain doesn’t suit Bokuto, but he won’t stop _looking_ at Akaashi, like he’s desperate or something.

“Thank you, Bokuto,” Akaashi says, and he wants so badly for it to sound annoyed, but all that comes out is a soft breath. He’s rewarded with an enormous smile, and it makes his chest ache a little.

“See! Not so hard!” The anxiety disappears like the moon and he’s back to kicking the table. “How’s Kageyama? Is he doing any better?”

Kageyama is still in the hospital, but he is awake now. Not, as Doctor Man says “out of the woods, yet”, but it is an improvement. Akaashi visits him at least twice a day, often accompanied by Oikawa and Hinata and Nishinoya and Kenma and Tadashi and that other boy, Tendo Satori, who is definitely an evil goblin spirit. (Akaashi doesn’t understand his and Kageyama’s dynamic, doesn’t understand when or where or _how_ they met, or why the ghouls child insists on showing up at their apartment and eating several raw eggs and a can of pickled plums every few weeks, but he understands that their dire and often violent interactions are just a deranged form of affection) Kageyama is consistently in a terrible mood, and often resorts to hurling objects at his visitors when he has Had Enough of Their Bullshit. It hurts for him to breathe, he tried to bite two of the nurses, and when he woke up and Akaashi tried to apologize to him, he got so angry he passed out again.

 _“Don’t blame yourself,”_ _He said, when he’d come back around, frowning and gesticulating forcefully with a crushed juice box. “Idiot! You don’t get to blame yourself. Stop it. I was stupid. You were not. You are not stupid. You are great, and I am lucky I met you. Best thing that ever happened to me. So if you blame yourself, I’m going to break your elbow. Or maybe my elbow.”_

But it’s hard for Akaashi to break a habit like that, so he blames himself anyway. Just secretly. On the inside. Where everything goes.

“He’s going to be alright,” Akaashi says, because he’s been staring off into space for a little too long. “He’s tired. And in pain. It makes him moody.”

“He’s _always_ moody,” Bokuto says peevishly. “Like a senile old man. You know he threatened to remove Oikawa’s kneecaps? Can you even do that to someone?”

“No, but I imagine he’d find a way,” Akaashi sets down his coffee. It’s already been fifteen minutes, and he hasn’t even sketched a thing. “We should get started with this tattoo. Can I see the image you had in mind?”

At this, Bokuto makes a face. It’s a very particular sort of facial expression, and it fills Akaashi with Intuitive Feelings That Something is Amiss. “Alright, so here’s the thing, Akaashi.”

Akaashi waits. The feelings morph into Vague Ponderings of Dread.

“I don’t really have an image in mind.”

Keiji continues to wait. Patiently. Filled with Dread.

“Like, okay, so I tried, okay? I tried really hard to think of a tattoo, but like… nothing ever came to me, right? And so I kept waiting, figuring something would strike. You know, like one of those Eureka! moments. I’d have the perfect tattoo to complete my collection of awesome tattoos. But then it like… didn’t. And that was on, probably Wednesday or something, I don’t know. So I went to ask Kuroo. He’s my best friend, you know. And I thought, “Well, we’ve known each other for ever and ever. I’d trust him with my life. There are no secrets between us. There is nothing I can’t ask him. He always gives the best advice.” So I went to him and asked him what I should get a tattoo of, and he told me I should get a tattoo of a shopping list, and when I asked him why the hell I would ever do that, he was like “so you can tell people you have a carton of eggs under your shirt and when people don’t believe you, you can just be like ‘kablam!’.” So obviously he was not helpful. And when I asked Oikawa what I should get, he suggested a tattoo of his face on my face so that I could actually get laid once in my life. In hindsight, I don’t know why I thought I’d get anything remotely close to helpful advice from them. Kuroo is insane and Oikawa’s like, also insane, except if insane had a weird older cousin who was really gay and into aliens.”

Akaashi laughs. It’s short, sharp, startled out of his chest like a caged bird. But it’s a genuine laugh, and Bokuto looks so honestly _thrilled_ , like it’s some crazy accomplishment, that Akaashi panics a little. He breaks into a cough and looks away, a furious flush of heat staining his cheeks.

“So you don’t have an image today?”

“No,” Bokuto’s gaze lingers on his for a while, soft and kind. “And I’m sorry! I tried! But then I talked to Tsukishima. He’s my roommate, you know. Crazy dude. Super grumpy. Really into dinosaurs and music. And he said that you’re really talented and great, so anything you draw will be amazing, which first of all, is a really big deal, because that kid is made of stone. Seriously. Getting a compliment out of him is like, basically impossible. Unless he’s drunk. Which happens sometimes, and it’s really funny. He becomes totally incompetent with his hands and falls down a lot. Uhh, anyway. Don’t tell him I told you that. He’d kill me. Right! He gave me this great idea! You can pick a design for me!”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You know, like how masters of an art can just look at someone and know their element or their sword. Like that, just with tattoos.”

“I… I’m not an astrologist, Bokuto.”

“I know, I know. Look, okay, big secret time, alright? I know that a bunch of Tsukishima’s tattoos are your original designs. He didn’t tell me. I promise, I swear on my life, he didn’t. But I can tell. Whenever I see them, I just know they’re yours. They’re beautiful. Like, breathtaking. And elegant. Real graceful. Like you.” A thin line of red crosses Bokuto’s cheeks. “And! And. He’s not creative enough to come up with any of them. His imagination peters out after the Jurassic period.”

Keiji takes a while to think. And while he thinks, he takes in Bokuto’s electrified white-and-charcoal hair. The way he pulls at the loose seams of his sweatshirt, gnaws on the inside of his lip. He looks worried, subdued, quiet, soft, and so terribly, tragically hopeful. His cheeks are bleached with summer freckles, and there’s top soil in his hair and his shoes don’t match. He has a chipped front tooth, and all of his smiles are sort of lopsided, but they are so sweet and kind.

It’s his soft spot for eccentrics. It’s the way Bokuto won’t quite meet his eyes because he’s nervous. It’s the coffee sitting centimeters from his hand. It’s the flowers hung in a row by his windowsill. It’s the sweet sincerity. It’s Noya telling him _he asked about you_. It’s because Akaashi is tired. Because he is lonely. Because there is something about the strange boy with the strange hair and the strange eyes that has Bokuto stuck under Akaashi’s skin.

  
Akaashi doesn’t really do custom designs. Partly because they’re annoying, but mostly because he is self-conscious about leaving his own work lying around. Designing is special, it is significant, it is personal in a way no one ever bothered to tell him it would be. Plus, there’s the whole crippling self-loathing, which has been cramping his style since Probably Forever that makes him want to claw out his eyes and stick sharp things in his skin every time he looks in the mirror.

Tsukishima was the one freak exception. He hates a lot of things, that boy with the blonde hair and gold eyes, hates them in a way Akaashi doesn’t understand. But he hates himself most of all, and he understands Akaashi’s totally insane need to destroy everything he’s ever made.

_“You can use me,” Tsukishima said, half-way through a sketch of a deer-skull; back before he’d switched to wearing glasses all the time (because Tadashi said they brought out his eyes), back when his hair was real short and dark. Akaashi looked up, stared._  
_“You can use me,” The sullen boy said, with a forced apathetic look in his dead-gold eyes. “For your designs. You destroy them, right? What you make. Because you hate it.”_  
_And Akaashi didn't say anything, but Tsukishima gave him a hollow smile. “That’s okay. You can use me. I’m going to destroy myself, you know. Some day. And then no one will ever know they existed. Just you and me.”_

And so it had gone; Akaashi’s misguided and rotten attempt to save Tsukishima, save him in a way he didn’t know how to fix himself, because that’s what Akaashi did for the people he loved, he gave them _everything_. And maybe they were strangers, but Tadashi looked at Tsukishima with eyes full of stars, and Tsukishima watched Tadashi like the world on fire, so Akaashi figured maybe Kei needed some saving.

Akaashi watches Bokuto. Wary, cautious. Insecure and on-guard. This strange boy who had come into his world barely a week ago, come in with his smiles and his kindness and his stupid flowers, put his sunshine where it didn't belong.

“I don’t do custom designs.”

“Yeah, I know. It says so on your book thing,” Bokuto kicks his legs, leans back on his hands. “Why not, though?”

Akaashi considers not answering him. Kicking the strange boy out of his booth, out of his life. But he would miss the sunshine. “Because I don’t.”

Bokuto watches Akaashi. Open, curious, kind, and honest. He isn’t smiling, and he looks solemn. “Okay, Akaashi.”

He doesn’t sound at all disappointed, but Keiji can feel it anyway. He’s startled by how much it stings.

They stand in quiet.

Then Bokuto starts talking.

“You know, I grew up in a really big family,” He says, and Akaashi closes his eyes because he doesn’t think he wants to hear what comes next. “I have six brothers and four sisters. Probably like, two dozen aunts and uncles. A fuckton of cousins. My mom’s family is Korean, and her parents are really driven. I mean, everyone in my family is. My father’s parents basically worked themselves to death, I never really met them. But I know my mom’s parents. They’re like the stereotypical Korean grandparents, ya know? Old and conservative and really traditional. They want their lineage to be perfect. I mean, they basically have all the lives of those bazillion family members planned out. Doctors and lawyers, people in government. Medical researchers. Real typical hoity-toity stuff. And uhh, well, my oldest brother is the head of this biomedical research facility in Okinawa, and two of my sisters are doing ground-breaking cancer work in America, and my youngest brother just graduated from the University of Tokyo and he’s sixteen. I have a cousin who’s the ambassador to England, and a bunch of others who are all finishing becoming top-notch lawyers and bankers. The two twins play for the Tokyo orchestra together. Even the baby of the family, she’s still in high school, she’s like, basically a genius. She’s going to go wherever she wants. What I’m trying to say is that my family is made out of incredible people. Everyone’s super smart and super ambitious and really successful. They all have spouses and steady incomes and nice houses and retirement plans.”

There’s a beat.

“And then there’s me. The homosexul fuck-up who couldn’t even get into college,” Bokuto stares just a little off Akaashi’s shoulder, head tipped. He doesn’t look pained. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t really look anything at all, which is a little scary, because Bokuto has a face that was meant for emotion. Apathy sticks in his skin like needles. Akaashi prickles with him. “My wiring in my brain is all messed up, you know. I came out weird. I have to take medication every day, or I get even weirder. And like, I’m also pretty gay, and there isn’t much my family fears more than homosexuals taking over the world. Plus, I’m not all that smart. Like, I can learn languages all right, but things like math and writing? Forget about it. Never been good at that stuff. So, in between all my genius siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles, there’s me. And I’m a total failure. I mean, I’m pretty happy, all things considered. I’m a gardener. I have an okay apartment, and I like my coworkers, and I’m good at what I do. But it’s impossible not to feel really, really small.”

  
Keiji doesn’t know where this is going. He’s not sure Bokuto does, either.

“I don’t know what your family is like,” The strange-haired boy says. “I don’t know what you’re going through. But I do know what it’s like to feel totally insignificant, yeah? And what it’s like to be totally unable to connect with yourself. My family has basically cut me off. Probably my fault, I mean, I used to be real angry and one time I showed up with Kuroo at a family dinner that they didn’t know I knew about, and it was like, “hey, I’m here. Remember me? You know, your son? I’m still around. You can’t forget me!” and then my dad made me leave and basically said I couldn’t come back, and that was years ago. I haven’t really seen any of them since. But like, I also met Oikawa and he was totally insane and told me that I had a good soul and that I should work for him. Growing things. And then I asked him what he’d want with a fuck-up and he just said “you don’t look like a fuck-up to me. You’re good with flowers. Come be a flower guy with us.” And that was that. Umm. What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that you shouldn’t feel embarrassed or bad about the things you’re good at. Because that’s the whole point of life, or something. To show that you’re not afraid of yourself. It doesn’t matter what you can do, as long as you can do it well.”

Akaashi isn’t brilliant when it comes to social cues. Blame it on his messed-up childhood, on Oikawa Tooru’s incessant whining, on his own three-wheeled tricycle brain that shut down when presented with basic life choices, but he’s kind of an idiot when it comes to not doing stupid, totally inane things in terrible social interactions.

Still, he has these moments when things are just so obvious. Like the first time he met Kageyama, or when Oikawa planted a bunch of daisies in the windowsill. When Nishinoya came to tell him he was capital-l in Love with Hinata and when Tadashi sat on his knees and cried because he was scared. There are moments when life becomes strikingly clear to Akaashi, like all the clouds and grainy resolution have lifted and it’s just plain life and he sees exactly what is happening.

He sees the way Bokuto’s left shoe is shaking. The chapped cuts on his lips from nervous picking. The way his eyes keep drifting to the cup of coffee in Akaashi’s hands. _He asked specifically about you_ , Nishinoya said, with shiny eyes.

  
This is the way the story goes, because people gives pieces of themselves to their precious people. Intuitively, instinctively, without even thinking about it. Selflessly, accidentally, because Tadashi thinks Kei isn’t watching, but Kei has ink in the shape of Tadashi’s freckles, and Kageyama carries Hinata’s first name above his heart because that is where best friends belong, and Bokuto is telling Akaashi the story of his family because he doesn’t want Akaashi to be scared. He doesn’t want Keiji to hate what he’s created, and even if it isn’t conscious, it is done with purpose, and anyway, the flowers are lined up in a row and the coffee is warm and the golden eyes are quiet. People give themselves to those they love. That’s how the story goes.

“Okay, Bokuto,” Akaashi says. He picks up the coffee, takes another long, long drag. He is tired. “Okay.”

“Okay?” The strange boy lifts his head.

“I’ll design your tattoo.”

“Oh!” Bokuto’s eyes are round and wide. “OH! Okay! Okay!”

“Yes,” Akaashi says. “I’m… going to be right back.”

“Okay!” Shock, surprise, unbound glee. Bokuto practically shouts. “Okay! I will be right here.”

“Good. That’s good, you…” Akaashi’s vision shakes. “You just stay… there.”

***

Terushima Yuuji is many things. Allergic to cats, for one. Obscenely attractive, for another. Grossly obsessed with American dance music. He’s a bit of a mixed bag, and Akaashi’s running a risk, because on one hand, he’s a brilliant designer and on the other hand, he has a mouth roughly the size of Tokyo.

“You what?” It’s a little hard talking to someone upside-down, but Keiji imagines that Terushima is mocking him.

“Terushima-”

“Shush,” He’s been eating celery with peanut butter, and he bops Akaashi lightly on the nose with it. “Do not worry, my small, angsty sugarplum. Terushima will help you.”

“Without making a big deal about it?”

“Oh, sure, sure. I know how these things are. Secret sneakings from sneaky secret artists.”

Keiji gives him a hard look. Yuuji has always been a wildcard. When he first started working, circa Tinto de Cuervos’s second year, it was only to avoid going to jail for pickpocketing. He’d been unpleasant and rude, to staff and to clients. It had all sort of come to a head when he pushed Kenma too far, and Kuroo had come after him. Akaashi couldn’t say exactly what went on during those three hours, but ever since, Terushima had taken it down about eighty notches. He meant well, but he was totally unpredictable. “Yuuji.”

“I promise! Swear on my life, cross my heart and hope to die!” He makes nonsensical slashing motions with his fingers. “Stick a needle in my eye.” He grins. It’s not entirely unlike Bokuto’s smile, just with a lot more spite and vinegar.

“Alright,” Akaashi allows. “I’ll go let him know.”

“You do that, honeybunches. I’ll be right here.”

Keiji wants to press the issue, but he figures Terushima can’t do much harm in the ten minutes it’ll take him to return. (This is what, in grammar school, people call  _foreshadowing_ )

***

When Akaashi reappears, Bokuto is cradling something in his hands. It takes Keiji a moment to recognize it as Kageyama’s drawing. The only personal item among his clutter of inking paraphernalia. His most-treasured gift. Not for strangers to touch, and yet there’s only a touch of possessiveness at the back of his neck.

“Tobio drew it,” He says, and Bokuto looks up. Emotions flash across his face; surprise, horror, embarrassment, worry. Sheepishness, as he tries unsuccessfully to hide the frame behind his back.

“It’s okay,” Akaashi laughs, ever-so-softly. “I’m not mad.”

“Oh,” Bokuto looks a little pleased. “That’s good! I was just looking, ‘Kaashi. You know.”

“I know.”

“It’s good.”

“Yes. He’s a brilliant artist. I imagine he’s going to be famous some day.”

“Does that make you proud?”

“Yes.” Keiji comes to stand beside Bokuto. The strange boy smells like sunshine and plants, and he radiates heat like life.

“‘Cause he’s your boy?”

“Yes,” Akaashi sighs. “I suppose he is.”

“Are they your family?” Koutarou’s fingers trace ever so lightly across the likeliness of Oikawa and Yamaguchi and Nishinoya.

“The only one I’ve got. I’d give them the world if I could.”

Bokuto’s eyes slide from the sketch to Akaashi’s face. He’s a few centimeters taller than Keiji, and when he tips his head down, Akaashi realizes exactly how close they are. He can see Bokuto’s chest rise and fall, hear the faint pulse of life from the strange boy with strange eyes and strange hair and flowers lined up on Akaashi’s windowsill like treasures. Bokuto’s eyelashes are tipped in white, like his feather hair. At this angle, his eyes burn.

“You’re pretty amazing, ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto says, and his voice is rough and low and quiet. Keiji’s fingers tremble, and he closes his eyes. He feels warm, warm all over, warm and safe, _safe_ like he’s never ever felt before.

Soft fingers touch the planes of his jaw, warm soft safe fingers, and Akaashi’s breath hitches.

There’s a breath, and then a whispered ghost of lips light beneath each eye.

When he opens his eyes, Bokuto is gone. But he is not alone.

There is a branch of lovely snowy flowers. Akaashi recognizes the breed as he picks it up, runs his hands along the rough bark, inhales. _Almond blossom._

 _Come say hi when the design is ready!_ Reads the scrawling note. _Ya know, I think you look real nice today. Your sweater matches your eyes, Akaashi!_

_Also, the blossoms mean ‘promise’. Because I’m here. If you need me. For some reason. I swear I'll take care of you._

  
Keiji swallows. Runs a hand across his lips. Sighs. Feels tears press hard and hot.

“You spelled my name wrong, idiot,” He swears. His voice cracks pathetically.

“Who spelled your name wrong?”

Akaashi half-startles, drops the almond branch. Terushima waits in the slip of his doorway, in characteristic bright pants and a off-white tank-top. He has a look on his face, the one Akaashi sometimes sees at an angle. Like he’s watching something unbearably sad happen to something unbearably beautiful. It's too sincere for a cunning face like his. 

“Sorry. You’d think I would’ve learned to knock by now.”

“No, it’s fine,” The tears dry like grains of sand. Keiji bends to pick up the flowers. “You just startled me is all.”

“The guy who just left,” Terushima says nonchalantly, “With the crazy eyebrows. He gave you those, right?"

“Yes,” Akaashi shrugs. He’s just noticed that Kageyama’s drawing has been repositioned beside a jar of paintbrushes. “He came to ask-”

“For the original design, I know.” At Akaashi’s bewildered look, Terushima rolls his eyes. “Jesus, sugar. I may not be at the top of my class, but I’m not completely stupid.”

“Right,” Akaashi stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. He wanted a tattoo, but I guess he wasn’t really thinking because he came to the appointment-”

“Stop. Bored. So bored. Don’t care at all,” Terushima interrupts, much to Akaashi’s relief because honestly, he was blabbering, and that’s a little embarrassing because Akaashi Keiji never blabbers. Maybe he's coming down with something. “His name is Boko-boka-boki-something.”

“Bokuto.”

  
“Yeah,” Terushima boosts himself up into the spot Bokuto was no more than ten minutes ago. “He seems pretty nice.”

“Yes,” Akaashi can admit that. “He’s very kind.”

“And he likes you a lot.”

“Uh. I think he’s one of those people who loves everyone he ever meets,” Akaashi sets about widening the hole in his sleeve. He picks at the soft seams, focusing on the individual threads rather than make eye-contact. This is how compliments usually go. “He’s just like that.”

“Yeah, but he’s definitely sweet on you, Tootsie,” Terushima inspects his nails, picks disinterestedly at the chipping blue paint. “No one just gives out flowers like that, babe. Not to knock him or nothing, I mean, it’s clearly having an effect on you. I was starting to think you were made of ice, but clearly whatever he’s doing is working, because you have ‘smitten’ written all over your darling face.”

  
Akaashi feels at once relieved and annoyed, and remembers once again how hard it is to be around Yuuji for extended periods of time. He’s a lot of work - excessively honest and one hundred percent filter-free, a combination that is difficult to like and impossible not to respect. “I’m not smitten. We barely know each other.”

“No, maybe not,” Terushima winks. “But you were sure looking at those flowers like they were a gift from the angels. What are they, anyway? Cherry blossoms?”

“Almond.”

“That’s fun. They’re pretty. You could hang them in here. Spice this place up a bit,” Yuuji wrinkles his nose. “It’s awfully boring to look at, you know. Tragic, really. All of those paints and things and not a bit of personality. People don’t come here just to get tattoos, sweetpea. They come in here to get to know you better. Let them into your life a little!”

  
“I don’t want total strangers poking around where they don’t belong.”

“You let Bokuto in.”

Akaashi opens his mouth to protest, argue, but his tongue falls short as he realizes, a little numbly, that he _has_ sort of let Bokuto in.

_“How am I ever supposed to even think of forgiving myself for abandoning him?”_

_“‘Cause he’s your boy?”_  
_“Yes. I suppose he is.”_

_“Are they your family?”_  
_“The only one I’ve got. I’d give them the world if I could.”_

  
Terushima pats him, ruffles his messy hair. “See? Terushima’s always right.”

Akaashi realizes that he’s shaking. Again.

He stares at the flower on the table, and wants to scream.

_What the hell are you doing to me?_

**Author's Note:**

> I love you, Akaashi, I really do, but holy moley, kiddo.   
> ___  
> Come hang out on [tumblr!](http://iamtherabbitwhisperer.tumblr.com/) I always like hearing from y'all.


End file.
